


Books and Covers

by libbertyjibbit



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Leitners, Multi, Selfcest, sex with multiple selves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 17:39:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18628081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libbertyjibbit/pseuds/libbertyjibbit
Summary: There's only one rule that's common throughout the Institute: don't touch the Leitners. But that rule doesn't mean much if you can't tell the book you're holding happens to be one. Even less so if you don't think to check before reading.





	Books and Covers

Don't touch the Lietners. 

It's probably the only thing that everyone in the Institute has been told - different departments have their own rules and regulations, different things that they should or shouldn't do, but not touching Leitners is the one rule that is the same for all of them. 

But being told not to touch is one thing, and coming across one of them in a perfectly innocuous space is quite another, so Tim thinks that he can be forgiven for doing it anyway. The rule is not to touch the Lietners, but no one has ever mentioned them lying innocently next to the electric kettle, as though waiting for someone (Martin, perhaps, Tim thinks, although later he'll wonder. Martin is the only one who regularly uses the thing) to pick it up. Cleverly turned face down, so that curious fingers wouldn't be able to help themselves from turning it over to get a look at the title. 

_An Introduction to Higher Anatomy_ , he reads, eyebrows going up despite himself. He flips the book open to a random page, smirking when instead of dull, dry text he reads something akin to pornography. Suddenly the book makes sense, and still smirking, he flips back to the front page, curious of the real title, wondering in the back of his mind who would be so ashamed and yet so unable to leave the dirty literature at home that they'd switch covers (Martin, of course, he thinks vaguely, probably picturing himself and Jon the entire time, the poor sap). The smirk dies on his face once he reads the page, however - once his eyes land on the "from the library of Jurgen Leitner" scrawled along the bottom. 

_Shit._ He drops the book immediately, feeling lightheaded. Don't touch the Leitners. It's the one thing - the only thing - that has been the same in every job he's held here. He may not have believed the rumors about what they could do before he started working in the Archives, but now he'd be an idiot not to. He believes. He believes, and he not only touched but read some of it, read an entire page, and he feels his stomach leap and roll as he waits for something horrible to happen. 

Only nothing does. Tim waits for what seems like hours, frozen in place until the door opens behind him and Jon asks in a voice heavy with suspicion what he's doing. 

He jumps, can't help it, and shoots a startled glance over his shoulder. Jon frowns at him. "Are you quite well?" he asks, and Tim could almost believe that he was genuinely concerned, but for the watchful look in his eyes. Tim glares. 

"What are you doing here? Stalking me again?" 

Jon scowls, face flushing. "I came to make tea," he snaps, stalking around Tim with his shoulders up. Tim sighs. He's not Martin; he's not going to coddle Jon and pretend that his paranoia is okay, but well, maybe he has something of a point. That Leitner didn't get there by itself, after all. He tells Jon as much, gesturing at the book and watching as Jon's face goes pale and drawn. 

"Did you read it?" he asks, and Tim feels no guilt about lying. 

"Just the front cover. It's not really a book I'd be interested in, is it?" He thinks about the actual contents of the book and raises a brow. "Not sure who a book like that would appeal to." 

"Students perhaps," Jon answers, but it's absent; he doesn't really care, seems to have lost interest in Tim altogether. "I'll take care of it. Thank you, Tim." 

Tim bristles a bit at the clear dismissal, but he doesn't want to be in there, either, so he leaves, ignoring the unsettled feeling in his gut. If Jon wants to do something stupid with that thing, that's his business. Tim's well out of it, and he has his own worries. No one reads a Leitner and comes out unscathed. 

He waits for something to happen the rest of the day; waits for his bones to melt or his blood to boil. Or, considering what he'd read, for his prick to fall off. It makes him irritable, angry, worse even than Jon, and after the fourth time that he's snapped something so harshly at Martin that he can clearly see the surprised hurt all over his face he gives up, pushes away from his desk, goes home. He doesn't bother to tell anyone where he's going; doubts they care. 

He relaxes once he's away from the Institute. Nothing is going to happen. It's possible that the book wasn't even a Leitner. Perhaps it was a test; one he failed spectacularly, but nothing that will actually hurt him. Some sort of drill that their uptight boss thinks is important. Probably he was after Jon, Tim thinks, rolling his eyes. Curious to see what he would do, if his inability to let anything go would lead him to read in spite of himself. Tim imagines Jon’s face if he actually read it and he has to laugh; finally seeing the humor in the situation. He’d have liked to see that. Still, it's good to know that he's not going to wind up with his tackle missing or relocated just because he opened a book. 

****

He dreams of some faceless someone between his legs, head bobbing as their mouth works over his prick just the way he likes it; a little rough, almost too fast, enough teeth to make it sting. He arches into that mouth, tries to reach for their head, bury his fingers in their hair, but his wrists are trapped, held down. Hands seem to be everywhere, touching, groping, stroking. There's a mouth on his neck and one on his chest; a hand pinches a nipple while another strokes at his balls, then just behind. Tim writhes under the onslaught, fighting his own body as he feels it waking, wanting nothing more than to ride this out until he comes, mindless, into the sheets. It's the most vivid sex dream he's ever had and he doesn't want to leave it. 

But his body doesn't listen, and he resigns himself to waking hard and aching, to taking himself in hand and trying to remember the sensation of being touched everywhere, being moved and manhandled and taken… 

He opens his eyes as he comes, crying out, thrashing against the hands holding him in place. 

As he comes down, he registers his own face grinning down at him and frowns. "What?" he says, voice hoarse, and the other Tim grins all the harder, places a finger on his lips in a clear gesture.  _Sh._  

Tim ignores him. "What?" he says again, sharper now, more awake. A tongue laps at his softening prick and he jerks, oversensitive, and looks down. That's his own head between his thighs, he'd know it anywhere, his own mouth working on him, causing his hips to jerk in small, confused movements, both wanting to press into the feeling and get away from it. The hands on his body are his own as well; it’s all him, all of it, every hand on his body holding him down, pressing in and around him, making it hard to think. 

"Wh-" he tries a third time, but there's another mouth covering his, kissing him the way he likes it best, hard and wet and messy, and his body is already coming alive again, desperate and needy under the hands and mouths on his skin. Hands and mouths that know just how to touch to make him _want. The Leitner_ , he thinks, legs spreading, hips rising as he gasps and whines and twists. It's his last coherent thought. 

It goes on for hours, days, weeks. On and on until he loses all sense of who and what he is, until he's reduced to whimpers and moans, a base, needy thing, mindless to everything but his own pleasure. He tugs uselessly at the hands wrapped around his wrists; he wants his hands free, to touch back or push away he doesn't really know, but they won't let him. They hold him down and hold him down and he writhes and pushes into and away from their touches as he comes and comes again. 

They take him over and over and he begs for it, begs for them inside of him and around him even when it no longer feels good, when he can no longer stand it, unable to stop. He wants it, wants it, wants it, can't keep himself from asking, from saying "again, please, again," in a broken, cracked out voice that hurts his throat. He wants to take everything that they're giving him until he can't, and then take more. To prove that he can make it good, make it so good, can keep going even when it feels like he's breaking. 

At some point the others disappear. In the space between breaths the hands and mouths are removed from him, and he is left cold and shaking on his bed, bringing sore arms to curl around his body as he tries to get a hold of himself. 

His entire body aches, and the last thing that he wants is to move, but he stinks, smells like sweat and sex, and he needs to wash. He moves in slow increments, ignoring the way his body throbs, the way his legs tremble and threaten to stop holding him up. He makes his slow, shaky way to the bathroom, braces himself against the sink as he looks in the mirror. 

He's a mess. His neck and torso are lined with bruises, bites, and scratches, his lips are swollen and red and his eyes are dark, almost entirely pupil. He knows his bottom half is even worse; it hurts more than the rest, and he thinks he might actually be bleeding. _The Leitner_ he thinks again, and knows that he was lucky. If he'd read more than he had they might have killed him. _Fucked to death_ he thinks, snorting, but it isn’t funny, not really. Leitners are dangerous, everyone who works at the Institute knows that, and he should count himself lucky that he escaped with minimal damage. 

Tim reaches up and touches one of the bite marks on his neck, pressing down, relishing the pain. He shudders, eyes going half-mast, and wonders where Jon might have stashed the Leitner; all the places he might believe are safe enough that no one will find it. He doubts it will take him long to get it back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed, please let me know. :)


End file.
